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Tollia in Vonderland Ch. 02

Tollia in Vonderland Ch. 02

---The Boomer Buzzkill: Update from Vonderland---

Alright, all you hot dolls and sharp dressers, welcome back to Vonderland! This is Frank von Stein, spilling the beans on the latest in the world of fashion and floozies. Glad to report our first podcast was a real success, so we keep pushing the pedal to the metal -- ruder, cruder, and twice as blunt.

Before we dive into the bimbo babble, let me give you a quick recap: the Tollia tarts have returned to Vonderstone with great fanfare. Only trouble? The store's changed. While they were lazing about on campus, I flipped the script and turned the Vonderstore into a full-blown lingerie boutique. Even renamed it to Vonderbone 'cause subtlety's for losers. Naturally, bothered their high fashion sensibilities. Tough luck, beggars can't be choosers!

The spoiled snowflakes are still working on their college degrees, which means they ain't yet officially qualified. So, they had to earn their contracts. Gotta give them credit, they gave it their all and passed the test with flying colors - or should I say, with flying fun flaps, if you catch my drift.

Too bad the fashion floozies couldn't seal the deal just yet. We were all heartbroken when they found out there was one last bump in the road. My brother -- that tightwad in a suit - bought up some stock in Vonderstone, and now he's gotta sign off on every dime we spend. That means our two horny, young hotshots have to turn on the charm and convince him of their talents before he lets the cash flow. Always with the technicalities!Tollia in Vonderland Ch. 02 фото

Lucky for the ladies, he threw a fancy gala this weekend. And what better place for a pair of glamour gals to prove their price than center stage at a charity casino night? What could possibly go sideways? Everything, of course! But I ain't gonna spoil the fun for you. I'll let the hot thots do the talking - or should I say, the bimbo babbling?

---Chic & Freak: How to Bring Total Glamageddon to a Fancy Gala---

Tia: Hey, everyone! It's your girl Tia - your fierce fashion freelancer, guiding you through the glam-o-sphere. Welcome back to our pod where we spill tea, throw shade, and serve looks. That's our vibe - no matter what those boring-ass boomers and out-of-touch oldies say. We even got receipts! Our sub count already exceeds our solo blog followers. Turns out, teaming up the boujee brattie and the bubbly buzzerfly was an iconic idea. We've got a special brand of spicy squabbling, that keeps the listeners locked in. And don't stress, we've got another meltdown masterclass coming your way. Promise!

Holly: Damn, my fashion fam! Can I just say... I'm hella hyped to be dropping bars instead of typing blogs. So much more my vibe! And I'm lowkey living for being back on my turf. This city is mine! I feel like I'm finally breathing fashion again. Campus was giving zero chic -- legit fashion wasteland! Slack pants, hoodies, and uggs everywhere. I can't even!

Tia: For real, I was missing the glitter and glamour too. But that's behind us now. We're back and badder than ever! I'm so over those basement bashes and dorm parties. Total snoozefests!

Holly: But honestly? I'm even more stoked to catch that fierce feedback from my fellow fashionistas again. So, let's get into it and kick things off with a poll. Remember, fam, you voted on the podcast name. And guess what - the results are in! Real talk? We haven't peeked at them yet either. I'm so excited, like legit nervous! So, here we go! Drumroll! And the winner is...

Tia:...'The Bimbo and the Brat'!

Holly: Oh, wow, seriously? Wasn't ready for that. But I'm cool with it. I mean, Daddy von Dom already calls me his Bratcat, so it's safe to say I'm the brat in the title, right?

Tia: Ugh, I'm not thrilled, like not at all. You know how I feel about that bimbo label -- so not me. Never ever!

Holly: Oh, come on, Tia! You're literally rocking glitter stilettos right now. You're busty, blonde, and popping off like a human Henriot bottle. That's a solid score on the bimbo scale in my book.

Tia: And that's why no one asked you, Holly! But fine, I'll own the bimbo title. But I'm a bimbo-by-branding only. There's a whole lotta brains under all the blonde.

Holly: And here I thought you'd say boobs not brains, but whatevs! It's not like we've got much of a choice. There's already merchandise out. Believe it or not, fam, we've got our own fashion line dropping. And we're already rocking the first pieces! Tia's got this cute crop top with a BIMBO logo in bubbly cursive and a kissy mouth for the O. It's pink, of course, and the logo looks like it was scribbled with lipstick.

Tia: See? You got the better deal! Your top's black with a BRAT logo in graffiti style. That neon green looks like sprayed on. Way more iconic!

Holly: But get this, guys, the shirts are just the start. I'm so hyped to see where this is going 'cause it's bigger than fashion. Don Stein also hooked us up with some props. When I'm in brat mode, I've gotta pop gum and blow bubbles. When Tia's cosplaying as billboard bimbo, she's gotta suck on a lollipop. Deadass!

Tia: And of course, we're doing it while we're recording the podcast 'cause duh! But don't worry, folks! When you hear a crisp 'pop', it's Holly blowing bubbles. When you hear a sloppy 'shlurp', it's me sucking on my lolly. Kinda distracting but totally on brand. Bet!

Holly: Just imagine rocking these fits and using these props at one of those basement bashes on campus. Sweet jeez! But for real, I'm so over those cramped dorm rooms. I want big houses and bigger mansions. Gimme caviar and canapés!

Tia: Good thing we've got something way hotter cooking than those frat parties. We're back at Vonderstone for just a week and already hit a fancy gala. Total upgrade!

Holly: Yasss! And the best part? There was a whole boujee buffet, and we were still the sweetest snacks in the room. No cap!

Tia: Damn right, our glam outshined all the other sparkle and shine. But we still stayed sharp as fuck. Our main mission was to charm Mr. von Bro -- you know the old-ass owner's even older brother. Like one strict old sack wasn't enough! But I'm no expert on basic-ass boomers. That's your lane, Holly.

Holly: Oh, don't even get me started. My sweet old sack can be a hardass sometimes, but he's usually chill -- fair and solid. But his big bro? Legit opposite! When Daddy von Dom's a straight shooter, his brother's a ruthless bastard. No cap!

Tia: Yeah, dude was a total vibe kill, which I didn't see coming. But it was just the start. Everything else was even wilder, or as Holly would say 'traumatic'! You're so not ready for the shit that went down at the gala. So, let's drop some context before Miss Bratcat throws her first fit.

Holly: Context, right! I was so ready for my big moment. The return of the dark diva! I could already see the headlines: hometown queen bringing fashion fire to level up her city! My dress was a serve in silver metallic sparkle. A corset top that was giving major hourglass vibes and criss-cross lace-up details on the sides that were chef's kiss.

Tia: But don't forget to mention your fit was so tight you could barely strut. Mr. von Stein had to help you climb outta the car. No kidding!

Holly: Oh, I ain't denying that. The struggle was real! But so worth it. Priorities, you know?

Tia: Okay, you do you, girl! While you were sparkling in silver, I was shining in gold sequin. My cutout minidress was a whole mood. The fit was tight as hell, hugging every curve, and the sequins were shiny as sin, blinding in the geezers' glasses. But don't even get me started on those cutouts! They were strategic as hell - right under the bust, slicing across the waist and showing off my hips. But wait, there was more! I also proved I'm a clever cutie. My dress stopped right above the knee so I could move without problems, unlike a certain boujee brattie.

Holly: Weird flex, but OK! You could move but you straight-up looked like the bubbly bimbo you were born to be. Real talk? We both played it smart, flexing our best assets. You used those cutouts to show off that big bust, while I used the tight fit to pop off my prime peaches. We all gotta play the cards we're dealt. You ain't got more tissue in your head, just more in your chest. No cap!

Tia: Whatever, girl! Let's just say we were a dazzling duo of dashing divas. The golden globes statuette and the silver scream queen -- total glamageddon. Period!

Holly: Yasss, queen! We were ready to slay, and I was all set for luxury. But it was an epic bust! The mansion was flexing some serious cash vibes, and yet big bro opened the door himself. Like, seriously? Where was the butler? So not what I was expecting!

Tia: And the dude wasn't what I expected either. A silver fox in his late 50s, built like a linebacker - tall and athletic. He was radiating major boss energy, the kind that gives you chills. Scary but I'd still climb it. Swear to god!

Holly: Oh-em-gee, a silver fox with a side of bossy. I'd be all over that if I didn't have Daddy von Dom already. But Zaddy von Stern didn't even bother talking to us. The nerve! My face when he acted too good to even acknowledge us. I was throwing icy glares, but he was so oblivious it hurt.

Tia: Didn't vibe with that either! Still, it was a big CEO flex when he turned and just nodded for us to follow. Led us through the mansion straight to the smoking room. We were struggling to keep up in our sky-high strappy sandals, and the second we stepped in, the smell hit me. No kidding!

Holly: Oh my god! My feels when that scent smacked me. Hella heavy and super sticky! Thick cigar smoke mixed with whiskey and rich man entitlement. My feels when I saw the room. Extra dark and legit gloomy! Velvet curtains blocked the windows and plushy rugs covered the floor. Does anyone else know those 50s casino vibes?

Tia: So weird! I felt like I'd just walked into a mafia movie -- if it was shot in a retirement home with the seniors cosplaying as mobsters. All the dudes wore suits, but I still clocked the golf gang. Remember Mr. von Stein's crusty old crew? Richard - scrawny as hell but filthy rich - and Carlito -- burly as fuck but totally retired. Jesus!

Holly: Oh, I so remember the boomer band! But they weren't the only dudes I clocked. There was also Hot Rod Hank and Bulldozer Bill. Mr. Grand Tycoon Auto was the booster for our high school football team. I knew him from those dealership ads he keeps forcing on local TV. Hella cringe! And the Gravel Gut had basically built every house and high-rise in town. I recognized him from those billboards he plasters all over town. Hella basic!

Tia: For real! They're not just cringe-ass codgers, they're fat slobs. Yikes! But then there was Haywire Harlan - Mr. Big Ranch himself - and he's the opposite of fat - wiry and broad-shouldered. Only dude in the state bold enough to wear a cowboy hat. Total Yellowstone vibes!

Holly: Say less, sis! But don't forget the other big, broad-shouldered dude in the room - Preston-the-Politic. I was shook the mayor was there. Ex football player who made bank as a pro. Black dude with a big smile and bright vibes.

Tia: Actually, there were a few more guys in the room - just NPCs, though. Pretty forgettable dudes! But at least, Mr. von Bro had some class. Led us over to the bar and whipped up two fancy drinks - dirty martini for you, cosmo for me. He's got drip, no doubt!

Holly: Yeah, but honestly? This was supposed to be peak glam, so I lowkey expected a bartender to slay with some custom cocktails or drop a mixology moment. But whatevs! The moment we had our drinks in hand, we did our thing. Turned that sausage fest into a whole new vibe! Our fits were straight-up fire and we owned the room like supermodels! Strutting around, we made it a runway. When you hit the Chuck-a-Luck table, it was like the sun popped up. Your gold sequin dress was legit outshining the gold watches on those sleazy old sacks.

Tia: Damn right, girl! And when you strutted to the craps table, it was like the moon dropped a silvery glow on those basic-ass boomers. Gave them a silver lining, like literary. But you know what? Every mafia movie needs a moll-with-moxie, and Mr. von Bro needed us glam queens to bring the gloss and put some sprinkles on that boring-ass casino night. Period!

Holly: And that's what we did. A hundo p! But I was still shook - no hors d'ouvres, no string quartet, not even champagne. So, how would our loyal listeners have handled it? Would you've kept it chill like the buzzerfly barbie or thrown a tantrum and made a scene like your favorite bad-ass brat? Let us know!

---Bimbos, Brats, and Boomers: Charity Cunts or Cunts for Charity---

Frank von Stein: And that's where I gotta butt in. I've been sitting on my hands long enough. By now, it should be obvious to everyone that our Tollia tarts are real hot air hussies. Let's face it, delusion might just be their secret superpower. Always a gas but not exactly helpful in reporting the truth and nothing but the truth.

But first things first! I need to applaud our listeners for making the right choice. At long last, we can call our fashion floozies what they really are: 'the bimbo and the brat'! Still, we gotta keep this thing from going off the rails. So, let me be the level head of this podcast.

Here's what's true: the event wasn't some swanky gala like the clout chasers were dreaming. Nope! The crowd was a gang of old-timers from the prune patrol. And instead of nibbling on finger food and humming along to a string orchestra, they were puffing stogies and tossing dice.

Draped head to heel in silver and gold, our glitzy gals were completely overdressed. The sassy siren was sparkling in silver like a fake Cartier bracelet in a bingo hall, while the titty tramp was gleaming in gold like a fake Rolex at a slots barn pool buffet. Gotta hand it to the fancy flappers, though, I could have cooked up those nicknames - golden globes statuette and silver scream queen. Real knee-slappers!

Another thing that's true: They made one hell of an entrance! When they sashayed into the room, the old codgers nearly spilled their whiskeys or dropped their stogies into their laps. They couldn't peel their peepers off those fine foxes.

"We might not be swimming in World Whiskey Award Winners tonight, but the socialites are certainly top shelf. Did you swipe these It Girls from a tech billionaire's yacht," cracked Mr. High Rise.

"Just goes to show, it pays to be a fashion expert. Those two might be the hottest models in the whole damn state," Mr. Grand Tycoon Auto chimed in.

"Ease up, old-timer. That first issue of Hustler you've got stashed under your bed sure ain't a fashion mag. Runway models must be built like yardsticks. They can't have those... assets!" Mr. Big Ranch cut in. "Blondie's got sweater stretchers that'll knock your toupee off, and Bluey's toting a trunk big enough to move cross-country. I'd bet they're making a killing as 'influencers'. Ever heard of that new-fangled thing? It's called the 'internet'!"

"Heck, those two picture posers probably got more followers than you got folks watching your car lot commercials." Bulldozer Bill joked, ellbowing the car king.

"Whatever you call 'em, they're the sweetest arm candy I've ever seen at a snooty fundraiser," Mr. Mayor grumbled, summing up what everybody was thinking.

And you shoulda seen the Tollia tarts. They were eating it all up like it was caviar on crackers. Socialite, model, 'It girl' - every title made their grins bigger and their backs straighter till their sails were fully raised. It more than made up for the missing butler or bartender.

Anyhow, here's what's not true: the rest! Our dumb belles didn't turn the event into a fashion show, and they weren't just lucky charms either. Try the opposite! But I won't spoil the whole soap opera just yet. I got a little treat for all our cool cats and dapper Dans. You bet your biscuits I was there. Front row and center, baby. Someone had to play the driver after all. Who knows? Left to their own devices, those two walking wardrobe malfunctions would've ended up hitchhiking to Tijuana. Can't trust spoiled snowflakes with responsibility!

This time, though, I was just another guest, not the main character. That role was reserved for my big bruv. And that makes him the best cat to give you the skinny. So, let me introduce to you the one and only: 'Zaddy von Stern' or ' Mr. von Bro' - as our dizzy dames like to call him. Knowing the man since the cradle, I'm fairly certain, he hates both with the same passion. Anyways, strap in all you armchair critics and join me in welcoming to Vonderland: Conrad von Stein or simply ConMan!

Conrad von Stein: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! This is Conrad von Stein, and I speak to you from the smoking room, with a well-earned brandy and -- quite frankly - a deep sense of shellshock. One might say I've seen a lot of things in my life, but nothing quite like this.

Let me first give you a bit of context. My bruv and I hail from the other side of the pond. Frank buggered off early to chase money and fame. He even ditched his accent along the way. As the eldest, I stayed back, inherited the family business and turned it into something respectable. A year ago, the time had come to hand the keys to my eldest boy. Conveniently, my youngest was keen to spend a year abroad with Uncle Frank. What could be better than spending your retirement with sunshine and leisure? So, off we went! Father and son left the old continent and settled under palm trees. My eldest is glad that I'm staying out of his business, and the youngest gets to go to high school.

But I'm not one to rot on a golf course. Too dull to spend every day there. So, when the chance arose to stick my fingers into my little bruv's business pie, I thought it was the perfect opportunity. So, here we are, the von Stein's reunited after all that time.

Business only works when you know the right bastards. I learned that long ago. So, I threw a party, invited the town's big names, and promised more than stale poker hands. But there was a second motive. It was my youngest big day. He turned 18! Time to roll him out and introduce him to the power players. Show him how real man network. So, it was a charity event on paper, but also a debutante ball for the boy.

Now, I've never been the type to buy blind. You want me to invest in something? I test the goods first! So, I had to see for myself what was up with these bimbo brats. I didn't see what all the fuss was about. I've no clue how silly giggles and sassy chirping is supposed to increase revenue. So, I gave the fashion fannies a chance to prove they can do more than throw hissy fits at the charity night.

As I've mentioned, I've seen my fair share of upper-crust events, but nothing could've prepared me for the arrival of those two trailer tarts. In a way, it was a changing of the guards. The civil part of the evening had just concluded. We'd done the ritual. Every gentleman had brought a custom-made gift that reflected their businesses. Rather quaint, if performative.

 

Take Plumber Pat as an example. The fashion fannies forgot the pipefather in their little introduction, but he brought my boy the latest high-tech smart home gadget. Ghastly little thing! And the rest wasn't much better. There was only one special gift. I'd arranged a deal with the car king. Shook hands, made promises, trimmed the fat -- the usual. So, he arrived in the newest convertible.

The moment, the keys hit my youngest's palm, his eyes lit up. He couldn't wait to test the car and parade it about, so I let him go brag to his comrades. Out he went! And with the boy gone, in came the adult entertainment. When I opened the door, there they stood on the porch - two human slot machines. Less red carpet, more red flag!

It was clear they'd confused class with kitsch -- young, shiny, and no sense of shame. Their outfits aimed for glamour but wound up looking more gaudy than grand, proving they're still young and dumb, but not yet full of cum. We'd gone from gentleman's club to gentlemen's club in the blink of an eye.

One might think I'd be the one disappointed that these slutty showgirls seemed intent on turning my high-class event into a trashy strip joint. But instead, they were the ones sulking. So, I decided to lower myself to their level. I slung an arm around each of them - silver server on the left, golden globetwatter on the right -- and took them on a tour through the house. Their mood didn't improve when they saw my guests. Another disappointment, considering they were the trashy tarts and the patrons were distinguished gentlemen.

"The party puppets have arrived!" I tried to set the record straight, giving the room a proper announcement.

Didn't exactly lift the slags' spirit. Not a good start! Still, I led the pair of pampered princesses over to the bar and personally mixed their drinks. Another point that irked them. Apparently, they expected a private bartender. Cheeky, considering they were meant to serve the guests. But they were still oblivious to that fact.

When they had their drinks in hand, it was time to get serious. Enough fooling around! No more posing or pouting! It was time to properly introduce the human slot machines.

"Oi, listen up, you trollops. Time to prove you can hustle proper. Work the room, give it the old razzle-dazzle! Make the patrons bite 'n' squeeze at least 2000 quid out of each for the charity," I instructed them. "End of the night, I'll be tallying scores. High marks mean a contract. Low ones? Off you trot."

And with that, I split them up. Sent the dozy diva to the craps game and the daft dolly off to the Chuck-a-Luck. One had the arse and one had the tits to jiggle, but neither had two brain cells to rub together to find the table proper. They tottered from one end to the other like it was a catwalk. Had to step in myself! Played babysitter to the big-tit bint while Lil Frankie steered the fat-ass lass to the right place. Felt like I was running a circus!

Frank von Stein: And that, dear listeners, is where the night really began. ConMan handed the silver server a stogie and a clear instruction. She was supposed to introduce the bigwigs to the 'bratty baddie' and prove the sassy shtick could shake loose some serious scratch. Had to get them to cough up at least 2000 bucks for charity. You should've seen her face. Still riding high on all that flattery from those old coots thinking she was the hottest shit in the state. But now, she had to play the drama diva instead of some ritzy socialite. Didn't sit right with her at first. But hey, a gig's a gig, right?

"Hi, I'm Velvet Vixen! Sorry, not sorry, but I only roll dice if they're diamond-studded," she chimed with a wink to Bradford, the banker.

"But you can light my fire, if you're up for it," she added, sticking the stogie between her pouty lips.

Leaning in, her silver dress hugged her frame. Her killer caboose nearly burst the seams in the back. But no doubt, all peepers were locked onto those big ol' buns stretching that getup like it was on the rack for failing to pay the next installment. Mr. Old Money let out a real knee-slapper as he whipped out a lighter from his swanky navy suit and sparked the cigar. As a thank-you, the glitter gash puffed a cloud right in his face.

A spin, a flick of hair, and she strutted off. A couple steps later, every fella at the table held his breath. The banker had hiked the side laces to the roulette wheel and gave it a whirl. A rip tore through the smoking room and the dress split like 'open sesame' on a bad zipper day. That took the daffy diva by surprise. She let out a sassy scoff that would've made Liz Taylor jealous.

"You can call me Miss von Jackpot! House rules don't apply to me, so you better watch out what I'm gonna do tonight," she purred to Lou, the real estate mogul.

And that flashy gent in his pastel blazer nearly tumbled off his stool. Miss Sassy Pants yanked the cigar from her lips, held it up to his mouth and let him take a drag before she turned and walked away. But the cat was outta the bag now, so a couple fellas grabbed the hem of her dress. And another rip split the air! While the drama dummy gave them the old eyeroll, the cats were eating it up like they were competing in a hot dog eating contest. What a riot!

Chin up, cool as a cucumber, that was the gal's groove as she took her remodeled getup over to the craps game. The four cats waiting there were buzzing like soda pops just cracked open from the vending machine. They couldn't peel their eyes off the silver server. No wonder! That dress was now sporting slits on both sides. At the craps table, she let all the bigwigs take a puff from her stogie before she introduced herself.

"Call me Princess Betz-A-Lot. Lemme lay a kiss on your dice. I promise you'll win big! You can cut me in on half your loot. Fair deal, right?" she teased Langston, the retired judge.

Bending over his horn-rimmed specs, she took a puff and blew smoke straight into his mouth. Kept her lips puckered like a pin-up girl, while he puffed it right back at her. They were basically Frenching without touching. Well played, I must say.

But the judge wasn't about to be outfoxed by some spring chicken. While the bratty broad leaned in, he whipped out his money clip. Slipped the bills into his pockets and snapped that clip right to the edge of her shiny wrapper. When the spicy stunner turned: 'Rip, baby, rip!' A clean horizontal tear all the way to the center! Our sassy siren rolled her eyes so hard Bette Davis blinked in the afterlife. But that little stunt fired up the rest of the patrons. One by one, the bigwigs tore a horizontal rip into her silver dress from bust to belt. By the end, the getup looked like it had tiger stripes. Right on the money for the Bratcat, if you ask me!

Slowly, her brattitude started to wobble, but the glitter gash wasn't about to throw in the towel - not so fast. The more threads she lost, the more sass she cranked out. And all eyes were glued to the brickhouse brat. Sure as the old cats were rich, she was the center of attention!

Conrad von Stein: Oi, the big-arsed bird pulled it off a treat - had the punters' heads turning like it was nothing. Quite impressive to be honest. But don't go forgetting the golden globetwatter. I'd given her the same bloody order. But instead of acting like a stroppy cow, she was meant to prove she could shift 2000 quid's worth playing the bimbo bint. Easy gig, if you've got half a brain and a whole lotta baps.

The tarted-up totty weren't too chuffed at the start. Guess she was used to being clocked as the hottest slice of pie wherever she parked her heels. Can't blame her - natural blonde, stacked up top, the whole lot. Bet the young blokes queued round the block for a crack at her. And now she had to act like a back-alley bimbo for a bunch of filthy old farts. Had her feeling a bit mugged off at first, but once she saw them gawping and drooling over her, she started soaking it right up.

"Hiya, I'm Lulu Lucks-a-Lot - your lucky charm!" she chirped at the blackjack table, all giggles and no sense.

"You keep playing, you might get a lotta luck with me," she purred at Hank, the car king.

Subtlety? They don't teach that in bimbo boarding school. But nobody in the room gave a toss. The daft dolly played her part like she was born for it, proper method acting. Unlike her manky mate, she didn't wind the blokes up. Nah, she batted her lashes and begged for their help. Twirling her blonde locks round her finger, she asked Hot Rod Hank to show her how to handle a cigar, like she's never seen a sodding smoke before.

The loudmouth was old as dirt but knew his game. He waved the big-tit bint over till she was bending right in front of him. Then, quick as you like, he shoved the stogie between her lips. Caught off guard, the busty bird flapped her arms but held steady. He made her suck that Churchill deep till it was proper wet and glistening.

A sharp smack to the arse sent the stacked slag tottering to the next lad. The slap made the tarted-up totty giggle like a numpty, but she kept going till she practically crashed into the building boss. Clinging to his shoulders, she pressed her big bristols against his chest to stop herself from falling flat on her face.

"And I oop! I mean, and I'm sugar, your showgirl," she tittered, coming up with the daftest catchphrase this side of the pond. "Here's the deal, boys: say 'oops' 'n' I come over to give you a special service."

Straightening up, she dragged the glittery gold tip of her French nail across his chest, but she didn't get far. Before she was upright, the big steel bloke grabbed her head and yanked her back down till her natural norks were dangling right in his mug. Packed tight in that gold dress, those fat funbags made a proper canyon. And that's where he stuck the cigar.

"Look at this Havana, all slobbery 'n' wet. Needs drying out! Those fluffy pillows are just the ticket," he reckoned, and nobody argued.

Buried between her big babylons, Mr. High-Rise gave that smoke stick a right good juggfuck, and the daft dolly held still like a proper good punter's pet. Being a generous sort, Bulldozer Bill sent her on before the stogie was fully dry. And that's how the tope-heavy tart did her rounds -- slap to the arse and she tottered on from one lad to the next, bending over to let each one shag her baps proper.

When the cigar was bone dry, she swanned over to the Chuck-a-Luck table, proud as a poundshop princess, carrying the stogie in her rack like it was a bloody trophy. Miraculously, she still got that scrap of a dress on - though calling that rag a proper gown is taking the piss.

"Jackpot! I'm Jacky Hot - your personal jerkslot!" she squealed, giddy as a schoolgirl on poppers.

That earned the discount dolly a round of laughs, but it gave the punters filthy ideas. Haywire Harlan was the first to react. Yanking the cigar from her cleavage, he lit it with a grin. While Mr. Big Ranch was puffing away, he waved at the golden globetwatter to do something. But the council estate cutie, thick as two short planks, didn't get it, so he had to take matters into his own hands.

Grabbing the hem of her gold minidress, the Old Spur yanked it up to her hips, spun her round, and pulled her close till she was perched on his lap like the stripper slag everyone clocked her for at first sight. Another grab while the busty bird was still squealing, and her legs were slung over his thighs - her fanny spread wide open. After a few pleased puffs, the Cowboy Hat pulled the smoke stick from his gob and shoved it right up her twat.

"Come on, Jacky Hot, you think you're smoking hot? Show us you can be Miss Smoke-a-Lot," the cattleman said, getting all clever.

Bracing herself, the blokes leaned in, eyes popping behind their specs. The top-heavy tart shut her peepers to focus, like that was gonna help her knackered brain. But she didn't think long - just acted on instinct, trying to pull off a 'squeeze-and-suck'. She shimmied, but bugger all happened. Wrong muscle, daft dolly! So, she tried again, her whole body tensing, lips parting like she was cracking a bloody math problem.

"Look at those fuck flaps twitching! She's giving it a go, fair play!" Mr. Mayor exclaimed.

"Don't rush me, grandpa! This is literally like science!" the busty bird giggled before having another crack.

Her pelvic muscles clenched, her twat tightened, while those pink wings wrapped around the smoke stick. Then, bugger me, the cigar's end glowed red. The room went mental - clapping, whistling, the lot.

"Oh my gawd! I did it!" the golden globetwatter cheered.

Cute, innit? The big-tit bint was proper chuffed about becoming a human hookah. At least, she was good for something, unlike that other bird in the room - shedding her rags but still scratching round for a purpose.

---The Bimbo and the Brat: How to Turn Vegas into Vogue-ass---

*MASSterBlASSter: You're all the same, whatever you call yourself -- feminist, model, influencer, cam whore. Like that slut from this frat party I went to. Holy shit she was hot! Too bad she was some kind of feminist, a waste of a perfect 10, if you ask me. Though at the end of it, she was running across the porch, cum trickling down her thighs. That was crazy man! Whoever got to fuck that hot slut was a lucky bastard. Wonder who it was. Heard she was some hotshot model. Too bad, though, in nine months she'll probably be a trashy single mom raising frat bro junior on her own, lol. Same thing here, by the end of the year you boujee hoes will be raising little 'von Steins'. Cause being tradwifes is the only career option you useless fashion majors ever gonna have.*

Holly: Oh wow! Look who's talking about 'useless majors' when your only degree is from YouTube University. But don't worry, bro, I'm gonna use mine to start a fashion label and open a whole damn store. Long before kids are even a tab on the menu. Till then, I'm having fun with Doms who know how to tame a brat without crying online about fierce feminists.

Tia: Damn, girl, word! Still, kinda flattered the dudes comparing me to some hotshot model! Gotta admit, though, there was a point buried in all that toxic typing. I've been forgetting to take the pill more often lately - just some blonde moments, that's all! Lemme be clear, though, I might become a lotta things, but a tradwife? Definitely not! First, though, I turned full-on showgirl at that casino night. The charity event needed a glow-up, and who better to deliver? Period!

Holly: Oh-em-gee! Turning that boring-ass place into a style serve? Legit the hardest slay of the week! But us fierce fashionistas crushed it. When we were done, the whole thing was chic, classy, and criminally fabulous. Think Vogue meets Vegas!

Tia: But that wasn't all! We didn't just have to bring the glitter, we had to actually convince each crusty old codgers to drop 2000 bucks for charity. Not for tote bags. Not even for designer gowns. But for a cause. So, we modeled our iconic fits and got these filthy rich fossils to buy tickets for a future fashion show. Nothing easier than that!

Holly: But for what? To impress Zaddy von Stern with our sales game? Be so for real! We were fashion designers blessing the scene with fresh energy and glamming up the place. We were so overqualified, I can't even!

Tia: And that's when the monumental meltdown happened that we all knew was coming. Holly actually started arguing with the Vonderbros in front of all the guests. Imagine that, folks! Of course, the hosts couldn't allow that. So, I had to step in to save everyone's face. I suggested to let us glam queens rebrand those boring-ass games. I mean, they were basic as fuck! But we could make them sparkle with a few minor adjustments. Promise!

Holly: Lowkey, my outrage was valid. The audacity was next level! But whatevs! I could live with Tia's idea. Time to give these dusty old drags a crash course in glamour. I set my sights on the craps table and made it a whole fashion moment. Walked up and this dusty dude in a tux legit leaned over. Hit me with something like 'We're a little old school 'round here. You girls - you're here for good luck, yeah?'.

Tia: Oh, I remember! That left you shook!

Holly: Ugh! Who did he think he was? Bro looked 90 and still had the nerve to speak to me. But I quickly bounced back and hit him with something like, "Gramps, you don't need better luck - you need a better aim. Like a hundo p! So here's your target, baby." Then I straight-up strutted to the other end of the table. Bent over and let my juicy booty do the talking. Told the grumpy old geezer, "Now throw like your pension's on the line!" And you wouldn't believe how quickly the senile old snoozers snapped up chips like it was bingo night at the retirement home.

Holly: Yeah, you definitely knew how to hog the spotlight. That put me in a bad spot, 'cause all the guests were buying chips for your game, not for mine. Another problem? The guys at the Chuck-a-Luck table were the same type of whiney old whitehairs. They seriously wanted me to give a kiss to their cigars for good luck. Can you believe it, folks?

Holly: And you reacted like every bubbly bimbo ever -- giggles, sparkles, full-on barbiecore. Legit the opposite of me! I dished out some real brat justice. That filthy rich fossil, Bradford, gave it another try. Said something like, "Back in my day, we didn't need glitter 'n' lipstick to play a man's game..." The sexism! It had me glitching. So, I clapped right back, "Oh gramps! In your day, dinosaurs still roamed the earth. So adorbs! But today? You buy a double stack, you get a kiss on the cheek 'n' a pair of glitter-dipped dice." That shut him up real quick. No cap!

Tia: And that was Holly's first hissy fit of the night. The crusty old codgers didn't seem to mind, though. They actually bought those chips, just to get a kiss. You were totally hugging the spotlight, girl. Admit it!

Holly: As you said, sis! Making the most of it! And I slayed the challenge! My dudes won, yours lost. Face it, Tia, I'm a better lucky charm then you. Mosdef!

Tia: Apparently, you're better with basic-ass boomers, I give you that. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Oh, you gotta excuse my sis. She's just licking her lolly. Nothing more!

Tia: Oh, sorry, folks! Hope it's not too distracting. Just can't stop sucking on the side 'cause duh! Anyway, I was making progress myself. When I'd finished that round of kissing cigars, I could finally start glamming up that Chuck-a-Luck game. And I gave it a whole gloss up. Definitely so! I immediately got rid of that stupid birdcage they used for rolling the dice. Instead, I introduced a champagne glass as a classy cup and rolled the dice in it. A total hit! Suddenly, all those dirty old dudes only had eyes for my game. Face it, Tia! Your couture crapshoot was old news. My charming Chuck-a-Luck was way better. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Oh come on, sis! As if our glow-ups were so different. The sleazy old sacks stared at my moneymaker while they tossed the dice. And they looked at your big bust when you shook the game cubes in your champagne glass. We were both pretty props, nothing more. 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: And that, folks, was Holly with a big-ass bubblegum pop, literally like an exclamation point to her hot take. But she's actually got a point. Maybe our strategies weren't so different. Whatever! At least, the cocktails kept flowing and the men were buying chips for charity, so everyone was in a good mood. The whole evening felt like a movie - just not the one we bought tickets for. Period!

 

Holly: Deffo not! But I can't wait to hear what our fierce fashionistas got to say about our glammed-up games. How did you like our sauce?

---Bimbos, Brats, and Boomers: About Cunt Craps and Shake-a-Lumps---

Frank von Stein: Well, all you highball honeys and chrome domes, before you start telling the Tollia tarts what you would've done better, it's our job to crack the case on how the fashion floozies actually glammed up the games.

Here's what the horny hussies got right: the attention was bouncing around like our fancy fashionistas in a beauty supply clearance sale. It was like watching a game of eyeball tennis. The patrons were snapping their necks back and forth from the craps table to the Chuck-a-Luck till they damn near needed neck braces.

Lemme tell you, the horny, young hotshots didn't like sharing the limelight one bit. Whenever the spotlight shifted from the sassy siren to the titty tramp, the Bratcat threw a hissy fit and amped up her slut game. Whenever the spotlight swung off the ditz-with-tits and over to the dunce-with-buns, the backstreet barbie sulked like a pouty princess and pulled some bimbo stunt. It was a gas to watch. What a hoot!

Conrad von Stein: Oi, it was a bloody spectacle, watching those two dizzy dames sweat their tits off to catch the eye of some brassy old bastards. Proper attention whores, the pair of them.

Here's the truth of what went down when those fashion fannies stepped into the game. The golden globetwatter was stuck at the Chuck-a-Luck table where her job was to toss the dice. But there was a catch! Those dice were locked in a fancy contraption - a birdcage, shaped like an hourglass. Now, the big-tit bint wasn't allowed to just flick the handle to spin that cage. That'd be too dull, wouldn't it? No, she had to wrap her naughty knockers around it and use those wicked wangers to flip the bugger.

Sounds like a walk in the park for a top-heavy tart, but it wasn't. Took some brains, and we all know that ain't the strong suit of any bimbo out there. At first, the stacked slag tried to make it work with that sparkly sequin rag still clinging to her cans. She prodded the cage's base with her big bumpers, trying to tip it over. Looked a right laugh, had the old geezers cackling. She gave it a go, I'll give her that. First, she poked, then she nudged, and finally she bumped - each try more ridiculous than the last. But no joy! She didn't manage a single bloody roll.

In the end, the back-alley bimbo had to face the music. Had to let those fat funbags loose. Started off giggling, all coy-like, fumbling with her threads, but the punters were getting restless. One of the old sods made a move to step in and sort her out. That lit a fire under her arse. The busty bird damn near ripped her top off. Guess daft dollies can only think in absolutes - go big or go home, nothing in between for that empty head.

With those massive mams swinging free, the bristol barbie slapped her skinsacks 'round that glass cage, using her natural norks like plushy pincers to turn the damn thing. Didn't work straight off, mind you. Nothing worth a shite ever does, right? Took her a few clumsy swings to get the knack. But nobody gave a toss, 'cause it was a proper show. Every neck in the room craned to watch that pillow fight, making the discount dolly the star of the show and the fat-bottomed fanny a forgotten slab of meat.

Frank von Stein: Lemme tell you, our future fashion icon didn't take it too well when the spotlight swung over to the glorified clothes hanger. First, she glared, and then she huffed like a busted radiator. But that didn't help! She had to make a move. So far, the trashy tramp had been playing lucky charm, shaking her moneymaker and smooching the dice. But the trick was getting old.

The brickhouse brat knew she had to switch things up, so she snatched the dice off the felt. Held them in one manicured mitt while she slapped the other on her hip - those sparkling shivs scraped for attention against the shiny getup like it was a catfight between chrome and glitter.

"Buckle up, gramps!" she crowed. "This boss bitch's gonna roll you into the old folks' home."

But the daffy diva goofed when she held the dice with too much pomp. Took too damn long, so Land Shark Lou stepped in.

"Anybody can roll dice with their hands. Been there, done that!" the flashy fella barked. "We ain't here to waste your talents."

Now, that was an abrupt turnaround. One minute, the old sods were practically slipping on the drool they spilled mooning over those horny, young hotshots. And then the patrons started letting loose. Slow at first, but it got more and more raunchy real quick. The whole thing caught the bratty broad off guard, but she only let it show for a second.

"Aww, you're so right, pops," our resident primadonna hammed it up. "My hands are for holding champagne 'n' tote bags."

The spicy stunner didn't clock it, but she'd just dug her own grave. That's exactly what the old cats wanted to hear. Before she knew what hit her, Banker Bradford and Hot Rod Hank hoisted her up. No sweat, seeing as she's 5'7" and about 115 pounds, so she's pretty much all caboose.

Just like that, the raven rebel was plopped on the shooter's end of the craps table - rear on the felt, legs spread wide, goods on display. Mr. High-Rise dangled the dice in front of her mug to make her do the 'boring' stuff first. She needed all the luck she could get, after all. To everybody's amusement, she scoffed so hard Marilyn Monroe sat up in her grave.

But she still played ball. And the next second, her scoff turned into a groan when the fella shoved the dice into her twat. She was so busy moaning her head off, it took her a minute to figure out what was next. Soon as it hit her, the groan flipped back to a scoff. What a back-and-forth. A real gut-buster!

Finally, it all turned into grunting when our daffy diva started squeezing her pelvic muscles to shoot the dice. If the golden globetwatter had a tough time turning the birdcage, it was nothing compared to the silver server. She tried and failed! So, she tried and tried again. Grunted loud, grunted hard. More often than not, she ended up lifting her rump off the felt, humping the air. The bratty broad got so wild, she nearly toppled off the table -- Rip and Carlito had to hold her down. What a riot!

"Let's shove the dice up the slut's stovepipe," Lawman Langston suggested. "That tailpipe's tighter. Might work better as a pop gun."

Another snort of sass, then a grunt of effort. But the poke did the trick, pushing the trashy tramp over the edge. First came a queef -- moist and messy. Then a die shot out in a wide arc, followed by the second die in an even wider arc. And finally, another queef wrapped it all up -- loud and embarrassing. Bet the broad would say she 'slayed the challenge'. Only problem? She rolled a three and a five. And we all know you need a seven or eleven to win the damn thing.

So, the sassy siren had to shoot again, which everybody loved - except the wannabe fashion queen. Still, I gotta give her props for getting faster with each roll, even if she wasn't hitting the right numbers. She got a few more shots but never nailed the winning combo. Like it mattered! The old cats were having a ball as they pushed the dice deeper into her snatch with every try. Meanwhile, the glitter gash got wetter, her moans louder, and the pussyshots sloppier. What a gas!

Naturally, the 'game of cunt craps' didn't remain unnoticed. The brickhouse brat achieved her goal, drawing back all eyes. Suddenly, the dunce-with-buns made it a one-tart show while the ditz-with-tits got benched. What a tug-of-whore!

Conrad von Stein: Oi, listen! There's no reward for good deeds in the game. And our busty bird was learning that lesson the hard way. The big-tit bint had finally sussed out how to use her big babylons without mucking it up, twirling the birdcage like a proper pro. But her prize? Sweet fuck all! The spotlight swung away, leaving her in the shadows while the sassy slag stole the show.

Of course, our melon minge wasn't about to stand for that. Her logic was simple: the top tart in the room demands the most eyes. So, the bristol barbie called on the punters to lend a hand and spice up the game. Looked like the pocket-sized princess had run dry of ideas rattling around in that empty head of hers. But the lads were eager to help her out. They fetched a champagne glass - the back-alley bimbo had been truthful about that. But they didn't hand it to her -- the stacked slag had lied through her teeth about that.

Instead of handing it over, they wedged it between her naked norks. Her task was simple enough: bounce those baps to jostle the dice till they spilled out of the glass and rolled across the table. Child's play - even for a daft dolly. Looked like the top-heavy tart had found her true calling - using her natural gifts as adult entertainment!

Turned out there were more titmen in the room than buttmen. The tug-of-whore carried on, and the budget model snatched back the spotlight, soaking up the limelight while the high street hack faded into the background.

---The Bimbo and the Brat: How to Turn Charity into Slay-rity---

*SirBelty: You girls are the best! Like how you go on about empowerment and shit! You act like expensive high stakes escorts, but at the end of the day, you're just back-alley street hookers. You glammed up the games? Come one, admit it, you slutted them up by sucking off those geezer cocks. As it befits your nature, haha. That's just female logic and shit!*

Holly: Damn, projecting much? Sounds more like you're writing fanfic. That's not what happened! We used glitter, not lipstick. Try again! 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: Sometimes, I really wonder how the hell our loyal listeners come up with these wild ideas. Imagine if you gave a blowie whenever the roulette wheel landed on red, or if I sucked off every dude who got 21 in blackjack. Sounds hot as hell! 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Sis, you're having a blonde moment there! I wasn't handing out blowies. Legit the opposite! I was so over the whole thing. The longer the night dragged, the thicker the air got with cigar smoke, whiskey, and desperation in VR. The drunker the dudes, the flirtier they got. But I couldn't even be mad. We were the hottest lucky charms that crusty casino night had ever seen. No cap!

Tia: At least, those basic-ass boomers knew how to keep things fresh. There were two more tables, and every time Mr. von Bro handed us a new drink, he dragged us to another damn table. Lowkey variety's like the spice of life, right?

Holly: Okay, fine! I gotta admit, roulette was so much more of a slay than craps. Instead of blowing kisses on crusty dice, I got to play chic croupier. Spinning the wheel and tossing the ball made me feel like the CEO of couture. But the game was still giving dollar store 'Wheel of Fortune' vibes, so you know I had to glam it up real quick.

Tia: Girl, how? Spill the tea! Don't keep us guessing!

Holly: Oh, I turned it into a big fashion moment. I straight up strutted to Haywire Harlan and stepped between his legs. Leaned over Mr. Cowboy Hat and twirled his tie. Honestly? I wrapped it around my finger like I owned both -- tie and dude. Then I just pulled it off his neck and tied it to the wheel. Finally, a glam way to spin for the win. Yasss!

Tia: See? You got the good games, girl. While you got to play with balls, I got stuck with cards 'cause the dudes parked my ass at the blackjack table. Less spectacle, more strategy, you know? I was out there shuffling stupid cards while the guys were analyzing their next move. And you? Milking the spotlight while I was background noise. Facts!

Holly: Does anyone else feel like this was legit earned? I made myself the main character, just by looking like a real snack spinning that wheel. Those dirty old dudes couldn't stop staring at my ass. They almost forgot about the numbers. Not my fault you couldn't pull the dudes' eyes away from the cards, Tia. What you even got those titties for?

Tia: Sorry, girl, if I've got higher standards than you. I wasn't content with just being eye candy. I didn't come to be a decorative dummy. No way! I wanted to show I could be more than that. So, no! I didn't slut-up the game, I classed it up. I made the most of being the dealer, shuffling like a stunning showgirl. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Alright, sis! Let's be real, though, you can't spell class without ass. But you can spell it without tits. 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: Keep telling yourself that, Holly. You're just jealous! I didn't even need my boobs to turn it into a spectacle. I've got more talents than that! I had those elbow-length silk gloves - sparkly as sin! So, I juggled the cards, paused to peel off one finger, and went right back to shuffling. Took them off one finger at a time. And at the end, I tossed them at the players for luck. You see, I made it a whole meal. Promise!

Holly: Oh, sis, sounds more like you bimbofied blackjack while I turned the whole charity into a slay-rity. No cap!

Tia: Take several seats, girl, 'cause I turned you into a side character when I shuffled like a showgirl. I'm pretty sure Bulldozer Bill bought a triple stack just to watch me juggle cards. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Okay, you do you, sis! But let's toss it to our loyal listeners! Who did it better? The silver scream queen bringing eyeballs to her fashion with some creative moves, or the golden globes statuette trying to be a serious card dealer? Fire away my fierce fashionistas. 'Pwwwappp!'

---Bimbos, Brats, and Boomers: Putting the Haow In Roulette and the Rack In Blackjack---

Frank von Stein: Alright, all you juke-joint jokers and soda-fountain sirens, don't go off passing judgement on the fashion floozies and their high-heeled hustle just yet. First, let us lay it down straight and tell you what really went down at the roulette wheel and blackjack table. Gotta give you the whole shebang so you don't go shooting from the hip without knowing the score. I guarantee you, this is the dirt that'll blow your mind.

Conrad von Stein: Blimey, it'll proper knock your barnet off, no doubt. I brought the fashion fannies a new drink to shake things up. Things were getting a bit lively -- about as lively as it gets in an old folks' home, if you catch my meaning. Most of the punters had stopped playing, content to gawk at the silly slags making a show of themselves. That meant, no more chips for charity, and that wouldn't do, not on my watch.

So, I laid down a new rule: the dumb belles had to switch tables with every fresh drink. Keeps all the lads entertained, see? The dozy dames didn't grasp the why of it, but they fancied the idea of glamming up more games. Blow me down!

"Hiya, I'm your Rack Jacky! I'm your dealer doll for the night," the blonde bird cooed as she sauntered to the blackjack table, batting her lashes like some innocent die.

Innocent, my arse! By then, her gold sequin dress was bunched round her hips, tits spilling out, and her prime peach was on display for all to gawp at. It was so bloody daft it was hilarious, and the punters lapped it up, pissing themselves laughing. Who'd turn that down? Not Mick-the-Machine or Bulldozer Bill who were sitting at the table, ready for a punt.

Oi, before I forget, during their little introduction, the two silly slags conveniently left out one punter. Intentional? I'd say so, but you decide for yourselves. He was right there at the blackjack table, more than happy to greet the big-tit bint.

It was Mick-the-Machine, local factory boss. Turns out, he knew the busty bird. Her old man was a waster at his factory, and she mucked in during summer. At least, till he sacked the whole lot -- dad, daughter, and all his sorry mates. Clearly, he thought they're both shite and didn't waste any time letting the daft dolly know. Our dealer darling tried to giggle it off. She focused on the game, shuffling the cards so hard her big bristols bounced like they were trying to jump off her chest.

First round, Mick was sitting on a soft 16, while Bill got an 18 and a smug grin plastered on his mug. The Metal Master fancied another card. But he didn't tap the felt like a normal punter - he reached over and pinched the bimbo's nipple, hard. The silly slag squealed and quickly dealt the next card - a six. Bust!

Mick chucked his cigar at the ashtray, fuming, while Bill chuckled, stacking his chips like they were bricks for his next skyscraper. Seeing the result, our tacky tart was cheering, her massive melons bouncing like nobody's business as she skipped and clapped. God knows why! Maybe, she was chuffed for the winner or just cos she didn't fuck up the deal. Didn't matter cos every punter in the room loved the view.

"Hookers 'n' dealers don't get to pick sides, bitch. They only get to do their job or they're fired," Mick grunted, proper narked.

You see, he had no time for her giddy nonsense and made it clear. Shocked our back-alley bimbo, so she scrambled to make it right - smart move, cos it dragged all eyes back to the blackjack table.

The daft dolly circled round till she was next to the factory fella. He was a self-made bloke, rough as a badger's arse compared to the rest of the posh lot. The busty bird knew it, so she braced for whatever was coming her way. Gotta say, the big-tit bint looked like she was about to shit bricks. But then she proper stunned the room. Dropped to her knees and crawled over Mick's lap like a cheeky schoolgirl begging for a hiding.

"Sorry, sir! So sorry for laughing at your bad luck," she whined. "Please punish me! You lost with a six, right? Give me six slaps then, so I learn my lesson."

Fucking hell, what a pitch! Whiskey glasses hit the deck, cigars dropped from gobs. Nobody saw it coming, but everybody loved it - especially Mick-the-Machine.

"Guess brains ain't your family's strong suit, are they?" the gearhead barked. "Your old man couldn't keep a job 'n' you can't keep your clothes on."

Told you, rough as a badger's arse. And he followed his words with two slaps that echoed like gunshots, hard enough to turn the bimbo's butt redder than a slag's lipstick. Hard to tell what was glowing more - her ripe rump or her pouty piehole. Plain as piss, the tarted-up totty was trembling with embarrassment.

"I see you've followed in daddy's footsteps - straight to the bottom of the heap," Mick kept giving the golden globetwatter a stern telling-off.

Two more cracks boomed through the room, so loud they shook the bloody floor. The blows knocked the bristol barbie off her hands, her shoulders sliding down till her face was on the deck and her arse up like a flag. She shot her arms back to rub her burning buns. But only for a moment! She quickly clasped them behind her back like a proper docile doll.

"I sacked your dad for being a lazy sod, but at least he never had to get spanked for his supper," the Metal Master taunted the stacked slag. "Good thing you're learning some discipline. About time! Might help you keep your job as a whore."

That stung like a bastard cos the big-tit bint let out a grunt. But again, the bollocking worked. The silly slag kept her face on the floor and pulled her hands off her arse, locking them behind her back. But they didn't stay there long. The final two slaps hit like fucking cannon fire - loud enough to wake the neighbours. The blonde brass couldn't keep still. Her arms flailed like she was trying to scarper by flapping.

 

And with that, the bollocking was over. Tottering back to deal, the daft dolly rubbed her glowing arse cheeks, red as hot coals. Her hands were shaking as she dealt the next hand. Mick-the-Machine got a piss-poor 13, so he grabbed her tit, squeezing rough as you like. And in return, he got another card - a two. Another hard pinch, right on the nipple. Another card - a three. He played it safe, sticking at 17, jaw grinding. Meanwhile, Bulldozer Bill was staring at a ten. So, he followed suit, grabbing the other funbag, and got a nine for his efforts.

"Dealer's pet," the gearhead growled.

"That's why I build houses, not excuses," the big steel bloke fired back.

He waved the glorified clothes hanger over, but she hesitated. Fair enough, he won, so what was he after? Fear, excitement, and lust were plastered across her mug, but she still tottered over, bending across his lap like a good little slag. And then she moaned like a proper tart. The Hard Hat didn't wait - shoved two fingers deep into her sopping snatch, pumping away. Wet smacks filled the room -- loud and clear. The busty bird was wetter than a drowned rat, even after that spanking. Bulldozer Bill gave her nine strokes up the twat, and she was practically cumming. Easy slag!

But the Gravel Gut made sure to keep the bristol barbie teetering on the edge. He pinched her nipples at just the right moments, so she never quite reached full climax. Still, it turned every head to the blackjack table, while her manky mate across the room was fuming at losing the crowd.

And with that, the discount dolly had gotten her reward. Stumbling back to deal the third hand, her legs were wobbly from the edging. This time, Mick hit 20, while Bill landed on 15. The Metal Master stayed put, but the big steel bloke was cocky from his wins. He grabbed those natural norks and squeezed hard, so the tarted-up totty flipped the final card - a six. And that made it 21!

"This is getting old." Mick was frustrated.

But the Gravel Gut was lapping it up, strutting round the table. He planted a hand on the bimbo's back and shoved her down. Her golden globes got squashed on the felt and her arse jutted out. Running his hand over her glowing cheeks, he made the busty bird wince. And then her breath caught as he pressed a finger up her arse crack. Quick as a flash, she slapped his hand away.

"Like, oh-em-gee, don't get butthurt, but I'm so not your butt whore!" she squeaked, dead serious. "My asshole's off limits, okay?"

Blimey, didn't see that one coming, and nobody else did either! Bulldozer Bill scoffed but went with it. Lucky for the daft dolly it wasn't the factory fella. Reckon he wouldn't have been half as friendly. The Hard Hat still kept going, sliding his fingers through the slag's dripping slit, making her moan. One after the other, he rammed three digits deep in her quim, pushing her to her toes. Then he gave the melon minge six strokes up the snatch. By the third, she was screaming like the terraces on derby day. Once again, she was trembling on the edge of cumming, but the Gravel Gut pulled out, leaving her gagging for more. Only took half a dozen thrusts to nearly get off the bird. Said it before, and I'll say it again: Easy slag!

Frank von Stein: You see, greased-up goons and high-heeled harlots, our ditz-with-tits got close to hitting the high note. Meanwhile, the dunce-with-buns was about to throw a hissy fit. All eyes were locked on her busty bestie while the sassy siren got the cold shoulder. Even the fellas at her table quit playing roulette to ogle the billboard barbie. Must've really burned!

So, the brickhouse brat was dead set on doing anything to steal the show and get back to being the main attraction. When the titty tramp refused to be a good ass whore, the spicy stunner saw her shot. It was now or never!

She whipped out some scissors and fixed up her outfit. Guess our wannabe fashion queen packs heat in thread not in steel. Still, it must've hurt! She'd whipped up that dress special for this event to show off her fashion chops. The fabric must've cost a pretty penny. And now she was wrecking it - just for a moment in the spotlight. What a riot!

The glitter gash sliced two holes in her corset, so her tiny tits peeked out. Then she cut another hole in the back, so her killer caboose hung out for all to see. While the silver threads hugged her frame tight as a drum, her tits and ass stuck out. What a vulgar sight!

Snapping her fingers, the bratty broad strutted through the room like she was the casino queen. Those mosquito bites? A footnote. Her killer keister? The headline. Lemme tell you, she could balance a pint on that thing, no kidding! That rear rolled up to the table five minutes after the dame. And sure as the dickens, it grabbed the crowd's attention.

"What's the deal, pops? Never seen a booty this juicy?" she razzed the gray-haired cats.

"You know, there's a reason blondie's called Miss Tits 'n' I'm Miss Holes," she purred, tossing her hair and smirking at the old-timers. "Barbae's all tits, no depth, while I'm the best butt in the biz."

"Looking for a backdoor babe?" the spicy stunner kept going, lips curling. "I'm the GOAT of gapes. Y'all wish you could handle this dump truck."

And with that, her big spiel was done. But guess what? It had an effect! Her yakking made all the cats in the room sit up and snap to attention.

Conrad von Stein: Oi, I bloody listened, didn't I? Thought it was just another shameless bit of self-promotion, but I remembered that poll you lot were running. Something about the best nicknames for the fashion fannies. I bet the sassy slag didn't even clock it, but she just wrapped it up for you. Sorted! Now we've got the perfect tags for the tarts: 'Tits and Holes!' So, all you lewd little listeners, use it proper when you send in your filth as feedback. The pampered princesses will lap it right up!

Frank von Stein: Oh, I'm sure our fashion floozies are gonna just love those new handles. Can't wait to hear them bitch and moan about it. Anyhow, let's get back to the action. With her big speech wrapped, our Bratcat strutted over to the roulette table - butt bouncing, nips hard as lug nuts. And in a flash, the patrons returned to the game, eyes all glassy with lust.

"Handle that double-wide? Hot damn! That back porch's a freaking landfill," Banker Bradford chuckled, his grin shinier than his gold cufflinks.

"Big enough to park a Buick in those cheeks," Land Shark Lou tossed in, making the whole table bust a gut.

"Prove it, then," the bratty broad kept her sass on full blast. "You fossils got any new ideas for this phat ass, or you just gonna drool over my sweet buns?"

To drive home the message, she bent over the edge of the roulette table, making those cinder blocks pop. Letting her rear jiggle, she reeled the old cats in like fish to a hook.

"Don't you worry, colon criminal, we got plenty of ideas for a walking wazoo," Lawman Langston assured her.

"Stick it in, you dirtpipe delinquent!" he egged her on.

And then he handed her the chip rake. Eyeing the gizmo, the brickhouse brat snorted. She knew it was for scooping chips from the pot, so she got the picture. Her mug said it all: she wasn't tickled pink. But her pride wouldn't let her squawk. After all, she'd pawned off her ass and holes like bad nickels.

"Let's see that trashy tailpipe earn its keep," the land shark cut her off when he saw the pouty primadonna hemming and hawing. "Figure the top tush in town don't need no warm-up. Always ready for action, right?"

Our drama diva scoffed like it was no big deal. Grabbing the rake, she planted the handle between her cheeks. Thing was no toothpick, but it disappeared in that double-wide like a tax refund.

"Man, that ass looks like two giant planets," Banker Bradford cracked.

"Nah, the gas planet's bolted on her shoulders. That trunk's more like two moons circling a black hole," the judge corrected him.

And the sassy siren let out a tsk in disapproval. But nobody heard it 'cause the fellas were all laughing too hard. When the bratty broad caught on, she quickly switched her tune. Moaning like a bitch in heat, she wiggled her hips and worked the rake through her cheeks like she was grinding on a go-go pole for tips. You can bet your bottom dollar she wanted to prove her killer caboose was better suited to hot-dogging than her bestie's boobs were to jugg-fucking. What a knee-slapper!

Of course, nobody was gonna stop that kinda hustle. But at some point, it was getting old. These are fast times and the old cats weren't getting any younger. As our resident primadonna wasn't really making headway, the judge grabbed the rake and yanked it outta her sweet buns.

"Bend over 'n' say 'ah', meat-grinding miscreant!" he told the tacky tramp.

"Say 'ah' as in 'see ya'?" the raven rebel shot right back. "Careful, pops, your pacemaker might not survive the excitement."

Despite the sass, she still did what she was told. Bending over the roulette table, she spread her ass cheeks wide. It took some elbow grease with all that meat to move, but eventually the brickhouse brat flashed her puckered pink knot. It twitched like it was winking at the patrons. But not for long! Lawman Langston was right there, jabbing that handle against the crinkled cuff.

"Hey! You can't just..." the trashy tramp squawked.

But the Old Gavel had a lesson ready. Pulling the rake back, he invited all the cats to slick up that sassy ass. And you bet they did. The old fellas lined up like they were waiting for tickets to the next Yankees game. One by one, they bent over the dame's rear and spat on that balloon knot. Even the craps players swung by and joined the line.

The bratty broad didn't like it one bit and wasn't shy about letting the whole room know. She was working up a huff till her snorts drowned out the spitting. Still, our drama diva held her ground. Obviously, she didn't wanna give the men the satisfaction of taming her ass. So, she gripped her cheeks with her sparkly shivs like a trophy wife clutching her pearls.

When the dame's backside was properly lubed up, the Old Gavel got back to business. He rammed the rake up her tailpipe like he was punishing her for loitering and didn't want her to sit for a week. But this time, there were no gripes or groans. Instead, Miss Sassy Pants tried her best to put on a brave face.

"Fuck yeah, look at that hoghole gobble it up," Hot Rod Hank cackled as the tramp's thighs shook.

And with that, the real fun was on. The sassy siren had to scoot around the table with that rake sticking outta her killer caboose and use it to dish out chips whenever the ball dropped. Sounds like a breeze, but it wasn't! Our future fashion icon was lucky she was wearing high heels. Otherwise, she wouldn't even have reached the felt. Still, her rear was facing the table, so she couldn't see the chips. That made it a real pain in the ass to push the chips to the right players - literally. It made her look like a dope but gave us a real hoot. Wat a gut-buster!

Still, the patrons couldn't wait all night for the daffy diva to get her act together, so Banker Bradford came up with a new angle. He figured, if you got a built-in shelf, why not use it to stash some dough? Sounded like a plan! So, he yanked the rake from her rump and turned the dizzy dame into a chip caddy.

"Sorry, pops, this table's for high rollers only," the glitter gash hissed when he tried to stack his chips on her backside.

Shooting the Old Gold an icy glare, she snatched the chips from his hands. Guess she wanted to keep calling the shots. So, she bent over and said 'ah'. No one told her to do that, she did it automatically. Looks like she'd learned something - first score of the night!

While the tacky tart was busy wedging the chips in her crack like coins in a piggy bank, the cats took her up on her invitation. If it's open for business, you gotta use it, right? So, the old fellas motivated the bratty broad by spitting in her mouth. She flinched every time a slobber bomb landed on her tongue but obediently continued to say 'ah'. Good girl! Finally, she managed to stash all the chips between her cheeks. With those cinder blocks spread wide, though, she could barely wobble on her heels.

"You sure you're a model?" Mr. Moneybags razzed her. "Thought models were supposed to glide, not waddle."

And all the cats had a good laugh at the 'waddling wazoo'. What a knee-slapper!

"Oh, gramps, didn't know you were a fashion critic," she shot back. "I'm saving my signature strut for someone with real money."

"Oh, sorry, my bad. You ain't no model, you're a damn vending machine," the banker chuckled when she squatted over his hand and dropped the chips with a clench and release.

"I'm neither. I'm something special," she mouthed off, though her voice sounded less sure. "I'm setting new trends, not following old ones. This place just ain't ready for me."

Naturally, that just egged the guys on to see if the future fashion icon could pick up new tricks quick. Land Shark Lou helped the sassy siren up onto the roulette table. Letting her crawl across the felt, he told her to grab his chips with her cheeks. If her busty bestie could use her massive melons as plush pincers, she should be able to turn her plump peaches into thick tongs. Turns out, some things are just too tough for dizzy dames.

"You must love losing money, huh?" she tried to cover up her flop by going all in.

The pampered primadonna really laid on that gold digger act thick. But that was all she could muster. Guess she was running outta sassy comebacks. Still, she had a point. All fellas bought another stack of chips, so she was really helping the charity. Even ConMan began to see how the brattitude was driving men into buying stuff.

Conrad von Stein: You can bet your bollocks to a barn dance, I was seeing the potential. The rectal raking was pulling every eye in the room -- even the lads from the Chuck-a-Luck table ditched their dice for a chance to play roulette. The fat-ass lass was collecting donations left and right. And I wasn't alone - the big-tit bint spotted it too. She knew she had to make a move, prove her bimbo act could reel in the punters, not sent them snoring.

Mick-the-Machine and Bulldozer Bill were still deep in their blackjack game. The cards fell and the factory fella got shite -- a measly two and a three. Meanwhile, the building boss was sitting pretty with a smug 18.

"Might as well hand me the pot now," the Hard Hat taunted.

Mick wasn't having any of that. Grabbed the totty's tit, so hard it bulged like a balloon, nipple straining like it might pop off. She dealt another card - a ten. Another rough squeeze, this time on the other jug. Next card - a five. From a piss-poor five to a tidy 20, not bad.

"Hell yeah," Mick barked. "Stitched that hand together from the finest cuts, straight off the butcher's block."

Of course, Bill wasn't about to let that slide. Grabbed both her knockers and squeezed them like he was honking a horn. The blonde brass grunted, dealing a queen. Bust!

Now, it was the Gravel Gut fuming. He knocked back his whiskey while the Metal Master raked in the chips. But Mick wasn't done -- not by a long shot. He stood up and rounded the table.

"You started this, you gotta finish it, bitch!" he growled. "I get the chips, you get the reward. That's the deal."

Mr. Mean Machine shoved the slag down, norks mashed against the felt, arse jutting out like a target. Ran his hand over her glowing cheeks, making her wince. Then he slid a finger up her arse crack, and she slapped it away faster than a copper dodging a bribe.

"Hey, I'm not your butt slut, either," she piped up, voice squeaky but firm.

Mick had expected as much, so he wasn't fazed. Slid his fingers through her sopping twat instead, making her groan like a creaky floorboard.

"Remember the card, cherry ass?" he growled.

And bugger me, the daft dolly remembered it was a five. Miracles do happen! Can't recall two prices in the shop but knows her numbers when it's about her cunt. That right there's a bimbo brain for you, lads.

Mick had his own rules, though. Instead of five pumps up her minge, he went for five fingers. Tried cramming a whole bloody fist up that fanny! Started with three, sliding easy into her soaked snatch. Four went in smooth, but five was a stretch - literally! Didn't stop him, though, kept pushing instead.

"You're as useless a whore as your old man was a welder," he hissed. "Just dead weight, taking up space. An empty shell like you needs filling. Nobody's got any use for an empty box."

That cut deep and made the back-alley bimbo whimper. She responded by reaching behind to spread her glowing cheeks, offering up her quim like a sacrifice. And then she squealed when she got lifted onto her toes, nipples scraping the felt. The Metal Master split her folds, driving four fingers right up her minge. Filled her fanny but didn't get past the knuckles. Like trying to drive a lorry through a keyhole! If that fist ever goes in, I'd wager it ain't coming out easy.

"Didn't think anyone could be more disappointing than your old man," Mick sneered. "But here you are, you rectal rookie."

Bit harsh, but it did the trick! The pocket-sized princess let go of her buns and slid her hands down to her quim. Some punters awed, some hawked, when she grabbed her fuck flaps.

For the fresh lot out there, here's a little nugget for you: the discount dolly's what you'd call a proper Arby Barbie - prime roast beef guarding the gates. But the guarding was done when she spread those piss flippers wide. Mick took it as an open invite and rammed that fist harder against her folds than ever. She squirmed and struggled, holding her pink wings open while squealing like she'd just spotted her favorite player on the pitch.

"Oh my gawd, grandpa, don't tell me your hand's gone doddery," she surprised us all with a proper taunt. "Stuff this empty shell! I can take it! I need it!"

The blonde brass was either trying to prove a point or she loved some pain with her pleasure. Either way, the gearhead was game. He started jamming, followed by cramming, and finished with ramming. Her stubborn hole squished and smacked but it didn't give. When his knuckles finally slipped in, her pink tube stretched to snapping, and she screamed like a pub full of fans when the ref blows for a penalty.

"Can't teach an old dog new tricks, but you can tear a young whore a new one," he snarled.

"Goes to show, some families just ain't cut out for honest work. You 'n' your flappy fuckhole are proof of that, you anal amateur," he added.

But his words got drowned out by the totty's next scream. To show his lads that worn-out wallet, he yanked his fist out in one go, leaving a raggedy pink rim round a gaping black hole. If the daft dolly had a sprog in there, it'd have dropped right out.

"Oh fuck! Oh shit!" she whined. "Oh, shove it back in, like seriously! I need it, like now!"

"Make me feel it, make me cum!" she pouted like she was proper narked he'd stopped.

Her face said pain, but her gob said horny. Even the factory fella was thrown for a second. But of course, he was in. The big-tit bint helped as much as she could, plunging her fingers into her shot-to-shit snatch, pulling it wide, though it was loose as a wizard's sleeve already.

Mick seemed impressed, so he went softer - well, as soft as a hard bastard can. Plunged four fingers into the velvet void, thumb mashing her clit like he was playing Kick Off in the arcade. Twisted his knuckles to hollow out that hole, and only then wriggled his thumb in. With his fist finally up that fuck tunnel, he pumped her minge like he was fist-bumping a footie squad after winning the FA Cup at Wembley.

 

And the top-heavy tart responded. She started with groaning, followed by wailing, and finished with howling. Thought it couldn't get dafter than that, but it did. She began squeaking, followed by squealing, and finished with shrieking. The daft dolly went from gobsmacked to gasping and from shock to pleasure as the orgasm crept close. Mr. Mean Machine wouldn't let her finish, though. Every time the busty bird was about to hit the big bell, he yanked his bloody fist out. Left her gash gaping, ruining her whole fireworks.

After edging the slag twice, Mick put an end to that monkey business. Pulled his fist out and left the totty standing there like a spare part. Took her a tick to pull herself together while looking a right muppet. When nothing else kicked off, the punters got bored and shifted their attention over to the fat-ass lass.

Frank von Stein: As you see, poker-faced players and lipstick liars, another round of tug-of-whore was over and the win went to the ditz-with-tits. Meanwhile, the dunce-with-buns was running around as a chip caddy. Too busy to notice squat. When she finally did, she threw a right temper tantrum, tossing the chips at the wall! It was a gas to watch. There was one thing that mattered to our fashion floozies: being the center of attention. And yet, their horny holes distracted them to the point they forgot all about the spotlight. The irony was a real knee-slapper!

But I started getting that ol' gut feeling. Our resident primadonna didn't seem to take the whole thing seriously. She was half-assing the gig like she was some special hot stuff! Looked like she thought she was too cool for the rules. Like a little butt wiggle was enough to have the old sods eating outta her hand.

Naturally, that didn't sit right with me. I wasn't gonna let that high-maintenance hussy coast. No way, she was getting away with a little bit of flashing a pout and playing chip caddy. My big bruv wanted to see some real hustle. This was about a long-term contract, after all.

The last straw was that temper tantrum. Real uncalled-for and ungrateful. Slinging chips at the wall could give these old-timers a heart attack. So, I had no choice. Had to step in and give the glitter gash a dose of cold, hard reality. A little extra motivation couldn't hurt. So, I pulled Plumber Pat aside - he was just the right cat for what I had in mind. Barely anyone noticed, but he ducked out to his car and came back with something outta left field. He'd brought some metal gear, yammering about a rack and pinion, but nobody listened 'cause we were all glued to the walking wazoo stacking chips on her back tray.

When the Duct Tape Don was done with his plumbing work, I stepped up to the tacky tramp. Grabbing her dark locks, I yanked her over to the spinning wheel.

"Say 'ah', filthy fashionista!" I told the Bratcat, using her cunty catchphrase.

"Say 'ew', wrinkled wallet!" she instantly shot back, like I was some random patron.

But she still reacted pronto. By now, it was second nature, no dilly-dallying. The spicy stunner bent over and reached back to spread her cheeks. Opened her yap and said 'ah'. At least, the dopey dame learned something new today.

Soon after, the 'ah' turned into an 'angh' when I shoved my finger down her windpipe. And it became a muffled 'nnngggh' when I pushed her body back. That's when the fellas saw what Plumber Pat had been up to. There was a dildo stuck under the table, and I drove the slut's snatch right onto it.

As soon as twat and toy were coupled, the wheel started spinning. The old cats looked like this was some kidna magic trick. Slowly, it clicked. The dildo was bolted to a metal pipe. Its teeth meshed with a round metal disc hooked to the bottom of the wheel spindle. Moving the rack back and forth turned the pinion, which spun the wheel. Dig it!

Just like that, the gussied-up gal had a new gig. Riding the dildo under the table to spin the wheel while the bigwigs played roulette. And that's what we did. Whenever they tossed the ball into the bowl, our resident primadonna had to spin the wheel.

It was tough sledding, man! The tacky tramp had to hump that dildo hard to get the wheel going. She was creaming all over the rubber rod by the third spin. By the fourth, she was already hitting the high note like a shameless slut. She was climbing the walls nonstop, cumming so much she forgot to keep working the wheel. And of course, we couldn't have that. Broad's gotta learn priorities! So, the fellas started pinching her nipples whenever she got close again. Kept the slutty spinner on edge the whole time.

Fun fact? The dirty dame held her mouth open and said 'ah' every time she slammed that stick into her snatch. Time to make use of it, right? When Land Shark Lou had won three spins in a row, I told him he deserved a prize and sent him over to the brickhouse brat. Stepping in front of the raven rebel, he plunged his pecker into her yap, driving it down her throat right off the bat.

"Nope! Back up, gramps! I'm so not your throat thot. This face is for selfies 'n' magazine covers only," the sassy siren intervened.

Now, it was her turn to push some fella off. Caught him off guard, but the daffy diva wasn't having any of it. Kept her lips locked tighter than Fort Knox. Looks like both broads got an Achilles' heel. And the patrons had no taste for bitching and moaning. So, all eyes swung right back to Miss Sugar Tits.

Conrad von Stein:... who was still dealing cards for Haywire Harlan and Preston-the-Politic. By then, the bristol barbie looked a right state -- sweat-slicked hair, mascara streaking down her mush. No more golden globetwatter, more like Hollywood hooker. But she didn't let on. Quite the opposite, in fact. Shuffled those cards like a proper bimbo - natural norks jiggling about more than the bloody deck. The lads played two rounds, taking extra cards just to get a squeeze in on those big babylons. But then the Cowboy Hat caught us all off guard. Took a chip and dropped it to the floor.

"And I oops!" he said, his voice high-pitched and theatrical to make it a proper taunt.

Nobody knew what he was on about. Brows furrowed, glances were exchanged. But then it clicked. In her introduction, the daft dolly had promised a special service to anyone who said 'oops'. One lad after another began to cheer till the whole room erupted like someone banged in a last-minute screamer.

The blonde brass glanced from Mr. Big Ranch to Mr. Mayor and then to me. She looked torn, eyes flashing with a mix of filth and fire. But of course, we just smirked back, not letting the slag off the hook. You make a promise, you gotta deliver, right? She pouted but still got moving. Rounded the table and positioned herself between the two punters. Bent over with legs straight and set to work. Undid the cattleman's big belt buckle and tugged down his trousers. Out popped his peacemaker, hard and ready for action.

But then the slag turned the tables and surprised us. Didn't grab the cock but reached back and spread her arse cheeks wide. She wiggled that proper peach, practically daring the politico to do something. And he didn't need to be asked twice. A man ain't become mayor unless he grabs the bull by the horns - or rather, grabs the bird by the wings, if you catch my meaning.

Proving he was once a pro, he threaded the needle into a tight window, right down the seam. Mimicking the gearhead, he formed a spear with his fingers and drove them up the totty's cunt. The top-heavy tart yelped, but not for long. The move did its job, pushing her body forward and impaling her gob on the cock.

The big-tit bint swallowed the cowboy's cattle prod like a crank bunny going for a crack pipe. Even kept her hands on her arse like a docile dolly. Like a proper skull-fuck slag, she took that plonker deep without flinching. Meanwhile, the mayor turned the slot stuffing into fist fucking. The trashy trollop was tight yesterday. By now, her quim was knackered to buggery, so the fifth finger didn't need much coaxing or shoving.

Taking over, the politico did all the graft. His fisting had the bristol barbie lurching back and forth, shoving the slag's throat right down on the cock. The model mug was nothing more than a fleshlight with free lube. The Cowboy Hat loved the arse off it but didn't fancy sitting all idle. Every now and then, he'd plonk his hand on blondie's barnet, pressing her lips proper deep into his mesquite patch. Kept his cactus buried in her gullet till a right gobful of slobber sprayed out her mush and watered his chaparral.

The busty bird knew her craft. Whenever the lads pulled her off the plonker, she dribbled the drool all over her nuclear knockers while she giggled away, looking daft but chuffed. All that gob juice made her bristols gleam like a couple of polished dessert apples - proper eye-catchers that had the punters gawping like they'd never seen a pair before.

Once the stacked slag was finished polishing her silverware, the model mug went back on the knob while the fisting resumed. Every time the bellend tickled her tonsils, her minge clamped down on that hand like it was trying to snap it off. Each time, her body started twitching, the mayor yanked his hand out. That snuffed her climax and let her quim gaping open. That busted breedbox gawped more like a muppet than the punters watching. What a proper peepshow!

Took a while till Mr. Big Ranch was ready to spaff his spunk. Shot his seed all over that glamour gob like it was a page-three tart in a tossed-out tabloid. The lads didn't even let the busty bird wipe the cock custard off her cheeks. Pushed her back to the table to deal cards, her couture cheeks still covered in man muck.

After that, it was off to the races, or rather off to the blowies. After spending his spaff, the cattleman went for a new drink, so Mick-the-Machine took his place. They played two rounds, squeezed two funbags, sipped two whiskeys. Then some bollock bile dribbled onto the cards.

"You wanna be a fashionista, but you can't even do your makeup right? Seriously, is there anything you can do besides parading your tits around in front of you?" the gearhead called her out.

The blonde brass just laughed it off but cracked on straight away. Scraped the spooge off her model mug and necked it herself. The gent goo had already gone a bit crusty, so it weren't exactly a doddle to swallow. Took real effort, but that didn't stop the stacked slag. No complaints, just compliance.

The games rolled on - the lads played, squeezed funbags, sipped whiskey. They waited till the tarted-up totty let her guard down. Then it was Preston who dropped a chip with an 'oops!'.

Everyone clocked it - except the daft dolly. Weren't till all the punters stopped playing and started staring at the poundshop princess that she realized what was what. This time, there was no sulking or dithering. She gripped her lip with her forefinger and gazed at the men, giving them a proper bimbo taunt.

With a big smile, she waltzed in between the lads. Same position, same old song and dance. The factory fella was already practiced, so his fist slipped in slick as you like - fit like it belonged. Turned the whole thing into a power play, the melon minge bobbing back and forth between cock and fist. She was gagging to get her rocks off -- literally! But the gearhead kept her on edge, giving her bimbo button a pinching at all the right moments. Desperate but denied. Talk about a blinder of a combo!

Meanwhile, the mayor missile was a cut above - bigger and longer than the last lad. Had her gagging and slobbering like the coppers hosing down a pack of hooligans. Got so rowdy she left a proper mess on her big baps and all over the floor. The tart's legs buckled and wobbled. She'd have hit the deck if she weren't skewered from both sides. Lucky slag!

Finally, Mr. Mayor proved his worth. Not just a man of big words but also of big loads. He frosted her forehead and coated both cheeks with his white wad, though it looked more like nut mustard than actual gent jizz. And of course, it stayed on that glamour gob. The big-tit bint didn't even think about touching it till told.

Once again, the games went on, the dealer darling served cards and had her norks pinched. The punters had a blinder keeping the tart on her toes, dropping chips and saying 'oops!' at random moments. Even the lads playing Chuck-a-Luck joined in, but the back-alley bimbo never said the rules were just for blackjack. Thick slag!

In the end, eight blokes used the model mug for a facefuck, blasting their cock custard all over her princess pout. Well, honest, it was seven punters and yours truly. The bossman's got to sample the wares, ain't he? Each one tried to outdo the last, letting her windpipe play filthy fugues on their fleshy flutes while slobber sprayed onto her nuclear norks like a waterbomber dousing twin peaks on fire. We turned that fashionista face into a right clown's mask. And the budget model edged at least twice as many times. But she wasn't allowed to reach the promised land before the last lad. As the bossman it was my duty and honour to get the daft dolly over the edge, and she came so hard she went all knees-up. Dropped like a sack o' spuds. Poor slag!

Got to give it to the blonde brass, she earned it. Every punter who plugged her mug bought a double stack to keep the games going. Proved her bimbo act could drive sales. No question about it.

Frank von Stein: As you see, you bourbon-breathed bastards and garter-snapping gals, the ditz-with-tits had snagged eight goo-dies. Meanwhile, the dunce-with-buns hadn't nabbed a single treat yet. Why? 'Cause she was yammering up a storm, giving us all an earache with her drama.

The bitchy broad got lucky that Lou's balls weren't gonna unload on their own. The flashy fella only saw one way out, so he grabbed her dark locks and yanked her off the plastic sucker. At first, the other cats raised a ruckus when the wheel stopped spinning. But they flipped to hoots and hollers when they saw what he was cooking.

Miss Sassy Pants barely got her trap open for an 'ah' before her yap got shut. Gripping her head, the big spender shoved her kisser onto the rubber rod. She tried to squawk, but her protest fizzled when her cherry lips stretched around the girth, and she started choking. The wheel clicked to life with the first wet slurp, but it was dragging, spinning way too slow. The dildo wasn't the biggest toy in the shop, so the spicy stunner didn't have to throat it. Still, it was no smooth sailing for the frisky floozy. But then again, she'd asked for the heat and knew better than to keep pushing her luck. So, she kept her hands on her rear, spreading those big buns wide. Good call, 'cause she needed all the help she could get.

Bulldozing that fleshy junk out of the way, she opened for business and offered easy access. Bent over, her vertical smile basically beamed at the land shark. Hard to pass up -- especially when that meaty mound looked like a ripe plum, all swollen and shiny. One touch, and it'd burst open, ready to spill sticky, sweet nectar.

No hot-blooded cat could turn that down, so the big spender split that plum open like he'd never felt the silky snatch of a velvet love glove on his big swinger before. He didn't need much pushing or shoving, 'cause that cunt worked like a suction hose. With a loud slurp, it sucked his shaft right in, all the way to the base.

For a second, he held still, digging the warm, wet muff clutching his pole. But then he started pounding away. A series of splashes broke out like a hailstorm raining down on a pond. Sounded like his pecker was splashing in a puddle. The horny hussy was wetter than a waterslide. And the frisky floozy leaned into the banging. A few strokes in, she was already cumming nonstop. With all that climaxing, she forgot all about sucking the rubber rod to keep the wheel spinning.

What a mess! Talk about dropping the ball. That wasn't part of my plan. This was about brattitude adjustment, not about making the diva happy. You want something done right, you gotta do it yourself, don't you?

"Man, the brat's supposed to work, not get her rocks off," I griped.

"Man, you're just mad I'm doing both better than you've ever done either," the sassy siren wasn't done mouthing off. "I can legit multitask, you credit card corpse."

That got me to my feet. Rounded the table and pretty much shoved the flashy fella outta the way. The brickhouse brat groaned when Lou's fat lance slipped out with a wet, noisy slurp. She wasn't digging it, but she was too busy to protest. Her legs were twitching and her toes curling as she rode the last waves of her high.

All the while, the future fashion icon stayed bent over, so her butt was waving at me, her balloon knot winking like it was calling for daddy. And the best part? After the rake job, that bunghole was already loose and lubed. Groovy!

No way, I was gonna make it easy for the gussied-up gal. That ship had sailed. She'd asked for it with all that lip. That ass needed some taming, and the brat needed to learn to take things seriously.

"You just gonna stand there 'n' stare, you mouldy old moaner?" she was getting restless. "This ain't a museum. I might be serving Mona Lisa vibes, but I'm not some basic-ass painting on the..."

"What does a brat say?" I shut her up real quick.

"Ah!" she answered, but not before a loud huff.

And then the dame's eyes popped wide when she felt my rigid rod knocking on her backdoor. After all that foreplay, I mean rakeplay, I could ram my plunger right down that drainpipe. And that's exactly what I did.

"Jeez, Grandpa Goldcard!" she hissed when she felt where this was headed. "You're tryna slide into my DMZ instead of my DMs? Hard blo... oh.. ock!"

But her sass melted into a high-pitched'oh' when my fuckstick stretched her farthole like a sphinc-door. It morphed into a dragged-out 'ooohhh' when his stiff shaft began denting her dirtpipe. And turned into a rapid 'oh oh oh' when I started slamming her sinkhole.

"Time to learn how to follow the rules," I told the spicy stunner while I shut down any more brat attacks with a few good thrusts.

"You wanna quit, you say 'Stop! My ass is on fire'," I barked between strokes. "We stop, but you're out. Gettit?"

"Oh oh oh... Ah... Oh oh oh..." the wannabe fashion queen at least tried to follow the rules.

That was a start. I knew she'd never quit on her own. She was way too proud for that. Still, the howling was deafening. So, I shut her up real quick by grabbing her black locks and planting her trap where it belonged -- on the rubber rod. Unlike the land shark, I wasn't just banging that bunghole to get off - I was pumping the poop chute to keep the wheel spinning. I was practically providing a community service. And the real kicker? In this position, the slut wasn't much more than a glorified connector. What a gut-buster!

Still, the relentless ramming took a toll on me. To keep the wheel rolling, I was hammering that Hershey highway like driving a nail into the floorboard, so I couldn't hold out long. Letting out a deep growl, I blasted my balls batter deep into her asshole, clogging that drainpipe. The bratty broad whimpered, her moans muffled by the dildo. Meanwhile, the crowd jeered as the wheel stalled.

"Look at that," I crowed when I pulled outta the loose chute. "That rear hatch slams shut faster than the country club slammed the door in your face over that membership application, Hank."

With my job done, I gave the glitter gash a parting gift, slapping both buns so hard it made her ass meat jiggle. Just making sure that brattitude adjustment stuck. It made the old cats laugh while the tacky tramp whimpered, feeling the sticky spunk ooze outta her o-ring.

 

"How 'bout this?" Lawman Langston suggested before the next bets. "Every time the ball hits red, the cornhole culprit takes the winner, I mean wiener, up that rear end."

The patrons roared again. They agreed before the spicy stunner could even squawk. She knew this was gonna escalate quick, but at least it gave her a second to cool her jets. A chance to prove she could spin the wheel on her own -- no butt-banging needed. But she didn't get much time to try. Just as the brickhouse brat got back to sucking, Banker Bradford cut her off.

"Listen, glam scam, I don't do sloppy seconds," he barked at the raven rebel. "When we're done filling up that couture keister, you're gonna fire from the rear 'n' fart every drop back out. Rattle that rim, you cocktail cunt!"

Man, you could tell our resident primadonna was just about fed up with the whole thing but still played along. Most of the cats were still gawking at her busty bestie, and she was hell-bent on winning this tug-of-whore. So, she started pushing and pressing till a fat glob of cum oozed out and dribbled down to her soaked snatch. Meanwhile, she latched onto the rubber rod like a plunger on porcelain. What a human hoover!

First spin -- black. Second spin -- black again. Third spin -- red!

The old cats cheered. Hot Rod Hank stood up. He'd been closest to the winning number. The wannabe fashion queen acted like she didn't notice. She focused on sucking and moving the wheel till his meaty hands smacked her ass. Scrambling to fix her flub, she reached back and spread her rear.

"What's a bend-over bitch supposed to do?" the car king growled.

For a split second, the sassy siren was rattled. But then her body trembled, head to heels. The motto was clear! She knew she had to say it, even with her trap stuffed. Her eyes shut as she started pressing and squeezing. It didn't work! She clenched and released - over and over again.

'Aarrpphh!'

The floozie's face burned as a wet, bubbling fart finally ripped out, splattering the last globs of cream on the floor. The cats howled, and the wheeler dealer pressed his thick cockhead against her balloon knot.

"No lube for greedy glamour grifters," the car king sneered. "That ass cream must be enough."

To prove his point, he slammed his stiff salami inside. The fat slob had a fat cock -- just the right size to really stretch that shitter. He also stood taller than the land shark -- just the right height to really drill down. The intensity was outta sight! Too much for the drama diva. She couldn't hang, letting go off the rubber rod.

"Look at this finance fossil," she hissed. "Wants to go directly to level 99 without even beating level haow..."

She wanted to say 'one', but it turned into a breathy 'haow' when the dick slammed into her stovepipe. It morphed into a dragged-out 'haaaow' as his fuckstick began to pummel her fudgehole. And it turned into a rapid 'haww haww haaaowww' when his jewels slapped her ragged rim.

"Shut up 'n' get to work, trophy tart," the wheeler dealer barked. "You wanna fish for gold, I'm gonna dig for gapes. That's the deal for money munchers."

And before she could toss another sassy comeback his way, the beer-bellied booster shoved her face onto the rubber rod, stifling the next 'haaaoow'. It worked like a pacifier. As soon as her trap was stuffed, she forgot the sass and got to work. What a knee-slapper!

Gotta say, the bratty broad sucked hard to distract herself from the rectal reaming, 'cause the car king was relentless. He rammed that rectum till his boner was buried to the hilt. Didn't stop till his dick started to strain.

"Gape for us, benefit bitch," he barked when he pulled out.

The brickhouse brat whimpered but still spread the junk in her trunk to present her hollow cornhole while the wheeler dealer jerked his cock. He watched her swollen sphincter pulse, struggling to close around nothing but air.

"Look at it now, Frank," he called to me. "That backdoor ain't slamming shut no more. It's open house in this back-alley biz."

And with that, the wheeler dealer plunged his prick back up that cratered cornhole. He only needed a few more strokes to bust his nut. His body trembled with every shot he squirted up her ass pipe, and the broad's legs wobbled every time she felt a sticky splash of spunk hit her ass walls. With his balls empty, he split, but not before giving both buns a good, hard smack - just like the last cat.

"Gosh, what a bunch of culture cavemen! This is a designer runway, not a back alley loading dock," the tacky tramp pouted as Lawman Langston rounded the table.

"Nope! Just an o-ring offender with her own echo chamber," the retired judge disagreed after taking a deep peak up her gaping gutterhole.

"What's up, rump roast rascal?" he asked the sassy siren straight out. "Forgot how to wiggle out of trouble? Thought you had plenty of practice, sugar shelf scoundrel."

Miss Sassy Pants whimpered. She opened her mouth to shoot back some smart remark. But then the task dawned on her. Without another word, she spread her cheeks wide as her swollen sphinc-door pulsed.

'Aarrpphh!'

With a wet fart, a fat glob of slimy spunk oozed out. But before the first splatter had hit the floor, the judge was already all over her ass. He slipped his dick into her stretched-out stinkbox like he wanted to make her pay for every dame who'd faced his gavel and gotten away.

"Haaaowww! Haww haww haaaowww," the brickhouse brat moaned, all breathy. "Haaaowww! Haww haww haaaowww!"

The Old Gavel held her head back by those jet-black locks like he had something to prove. Guess he wanted to show he could make the pampered primadonna hiss louder than the last cat. Judging by the noise she was making, that ass was on fire as the judge pistoned in and out like he was chasing a confession out of her with every thrust.

When the crowd began to clamor for the next round, he shoved her kisser onto the plastic pacifier. Each thrust made the wheel spin faster as her rump rippled around his hard cock. The wheel clattered with each bob of her head as she drooled like a teenager at a Marylin Monroe shoot and her caboose squelched like a gumboot in a bayou. With a guttural groan, the lawman blew his load, his spunk flooding her bowels like hot wax.

"Now, blow it back out, you cumfart convict!" the judge laid down the law.

But instead of banging the gavel, he gave her killer keister the signature double smack. By then, the rest of the roulette players were getting antsy, so they decided to switch the rules. From then on, red meant butt-banging and black meant pussy-pounding.

Sure as taxes, the drama diva got to feel the shift. Her tushy got a breather when Banker Bradford hit black and went straight for the snatch. Her pink folds clamped down on his meat stick but loosened up real quick once he started stretching out that tight slit. He banged her breed box till the air was thick with the sound of squelching slaps. The dizzy dame came so hard she almost turned the plastic pacifier into a chew toy.

By the time Old Money blasted her cervix with his baby bullets, the spicy stunner was a grunting mess. The banker filled her to the brim and beyond. His man jam was already oozing out when he pulled his cock from her cunt.

And the next cat was right there waiting. It was my good ol' golf buddy Rip who didn't give our resident primadonna a second to catch her breath or push out the scrotum sauce. Instead, he went straight to town on her tailpipe. Slamming her sinkhole, he fucked the filling outta her snatch. With every thrust, you could hear the pearly paste sloshing around inside her baby oven.

Sixth round -- black for Plumber Pat. Seventh round -- red for Land Shark Lou who hadn't finished the job the first time around.

"Uhhh, the Blew-it-Lou? Again? I mean, the first round flopped harder than a thirst trap selfie without Wifi!" the daffy diva snarked. "Someone tell gramps this ain't a reboot. I'm no washed instamodel relaunching with bikini pics on OnlyFans."

Naturally, that just lit a fire under the flashy fella. Whether the dizzy dame didn't know what she was doing or was riling him up on purpose, hell if I know... or care. Either way, it was the final round, and he yanked her hair back like he meant business, making sure every slam came with a breathy 'haaaowww' right from those glossy lips.

That was the kinda tune the old cats could listen to all day long. Turns out there was some chamber music after all -- just like the glamour gals had demanded. And when the big spender finally pulled his pecker from the brat's ass, her ringpiece looked like a hoely hellhole. Pun intended!

"Tell me, green grabber, what was it 'bout the Buick 'n' the butthole?" the land shark cracked when he pulled his pecker from the brat's ass. "Now, you could fit a whole truck in there, easy as pie."

"Hey, Hank, listen! You should give the trophy tramp a discount on an Escalade," he called over to the car king. "She's already got herself the perfect carport."

Eighth round -- black for ConMan who'd started playing roulette after he'd finished testing the bimbo's talents as a human hookah.

"Oi, but the motor shed's missing," my big bruv pointed out as he stepped in. "Reckon it's time to discard that dick garage 'n' rent a new one."

And he wasn't wrong. That gutted gloryhole was gaping so wide it couldn't even try to close.

"Oh please, like you'd ever find a trophy that comes without a battery," the bratty broad couldn't help but roll her eyes.

And those peepers kept rolling all the way to the back of her head when Conrad plunged his prick into her sloppy slit. It sounded like his cock was taking a header into a pool as he pounded away. While the sassy siren moaned her head off, her creamed crater tried to clench with every thrust but ended up fluttering around like a floppy flap on a breezy day.

"Oi, no more shut sphinc-door -- just a sloppy pit o' shame," my big bruv cracked.

That remark was enough to make our wannabe fashion queen cream all over the gnarly old gearstick. For a while, ConMan enjoyed the tight grip massaging his dick. But then it pushed him over the edge. Seconds before he reached the point of no return, he pulled out and buried his bat balls deep in the bunghole. A few strokes later, he let out a deep growl and painted those ass walls white.

When all was said and done, our future fashion icon slumped forward, her asshole still winking. Looked like our drama diva had to work hard for the first time in her life. But she'd pulled it off! Every patron who'd banged a brathole had bought a double stack, proving her brattitude could get fellas to buy anything. Now, the only question left was this: who'd done better at convincing the cats? The golden globetwatter or the silver server?

---The Bimbo and the Brat: How to Make Bimbo Math Mathing---

*Amorica: Hey babes, I'm confused. Don Stein was at the gala as a passive observer, and Matt-o-Dom wasn't there at all. But you still fucked all these old farts, right? The math ain't mathing, or is this some kinda bimbo math?*

Holly: Oh, my fellow fashionista, it's so not bimbo math, at least not in my case. It was straight-up brattitude adjustment. You know, my Daddy Dom lives to watch me get all dramatic and throw tantrums - just so he can tame my ass and teach me a lesson later. It's our thing! But he likes to keep things fresh, so he handed the reins to these grumbling geezers for once. But don't worry! He still controlled the narrative. He's the director - I'm the main event. Mosdef!

Tia: Um... yeah, it's deeper than that for me. Matt knew exactly what was up. We talked it out before. Our relationship's all about freedom and self-expression, you know? While I explore, my man provides the safe space. This time was an exception 'cause his daddio played chaperone. But honestly? Matt was more hyped to hang at the Yamos house with his frat squad than deal with those crusty old codgers at the gala. Like a good girl, though, I always give my man the full debrief after my sexventures. Normally, he's all into the details, and we act out the most exciting stuff. But this time, he only asked about that rearlette. So stupid, 'cause I'm no butt-banging bimbo. Definitely not! So, that's on him.

*WhosYourDaddy60: Bitches, always the same with dumb bitches! Just when we voted on a name, you drop that bombshell. Shoulda called your podcast TNH, as in 'Tits-n-Holes: Talking Nonsense Hussies -- Thinking Not Happening!' Now, that name woulda brought in the followers. Oh, and you should turn this thing into a videocast, so we can see those tits and holes live and in living colors.*

Holly: Excuse me, WannaBeYourDaddy, did you type that with one hand or two? If thinking's not happening, it's clearly contagious. We talk nonsense, but you just wrote a thesis in verbal diarrhea! We were this close to inviting y'all to a videocast, but our camera doesn't support 'desperate losers in 4K'. So sad! Now, it's never gonna happen. So, say thanks to DumbDaddy60, all you fierce fashionistas out there. You're not edgy - just exhausting. Thank you, next! 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: Yeah, sweetie, this ain't Built-a-Bimbo! We do this our way or no way at all. But wait! How the hell did you find out about the tits-and-holes thing? Who told you? Don't you dare make this a thing, folks! You're not Team Tia if you ever call me that! And everyone wants to be in TNT -- Tia's Naughty Tribe, duh!

Holly: Whatevs! I believe in my Holligans. They're not gonna do us dirty like that. It's just a few haters, that's all. We're still winning 'cause we legit slayed the challenge and glammed up the gala. But please, my fashion fam, can we not talk about that rearlette, like ever? It's giving irrelevant. Don't even know why Tia mentioned it. No cap!

Tia: Oh right, girl, that's really nothing to talk about. Sorry, my bad! Anyway, no one's gonna cramp our style, not after we impressed the hell outta these basic-ass boomers. We made those boring-ass games fun and brought in the charity coin. Gambling never looked hotter. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Gotta say, it was fire watching these mouldy old moaners falling over each other to buy more chips -- just to play our glammed-up games. So iconic! It's the proof: we're not just fashion designers, we're creative geniuses. 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: Facts! Some of those grumpy geezers bought three stakes - just to win once. We brought in record numbers for that charity. No doubt about it!

Holly: But then these dusty old drags counted the money like we were at some bingo night in a retirement home. I can't even! Remember? We needed to reach 2000 each. My face when they announced I made 1960! That's, like, basically 2000 with tax! What about rounding up? These silver snoozers were so senile they couldn't even math anymore.

Tia: Yeah, that's when the math wasn't mathing 'cause the whiney old whitehairs said I made 1940 bucks. Bitch, please! I was carrying that gala. Period!

Holly: My feels when Zaddy von Stern told us, "Sorry girls, no contracts." Like seriously? I couldn't believe it, but he was deadass! I was ready to throw my champagne in his face. That number was hella rigged. I was so done with this drama!

Tia: For real! That was totally giving set-up vibes. We never had a chance to hit that number. So unfair! But then the Duct Tape Don piped up. Remember, he'd left and returned. And guess what? They forgot to count the stacks he bought the first time around. So, they had to do a full-ass recount. I totally sweated every second of it. No kidding! My heart stopped when they dropped the result - 2035 bucks for you and 2015 for me. Close as hell, but just enough. Swear to god!

Holly: Does anyone know that feeling when you're so nervous you're ready to die? Those rusty old retirees legit made us wait for the end results. I was so close to throw a temper tantrum. I can't even! But the relief was next-level. My face when I heard the numbers. No way, I could've taken another failure! 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: We made it! Mr. von Bro had to correct himself and give us the contract. Finally! But damn, we totally deserved it! However, the stern zaddy didn't look so happy about it. Can you believe it, folks? He wasn't satisfied with our performance. No kidding! He was lowkey angry. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Actually, he wasn't hella happy with Miss Tits. Told us, 'bimbo' is a title, and titles gotta be earned, not handed out like free samples. Bet, you guys have heard of bimbofication, right? It's legit measured in physical glow-ups. So, Zaddy von Stern felt like Tia wasn't a real bimbo yet 'cause she's all natural - blonde and busty - not a single surgery, just some ink. Not gonna lie, he's got a point with that take. No cap!

Tia: Um... hello? Who the hell you calling Miss Tits? What happened to hushing up that mess?

Holly: Oh, come on, Tits! The cat's outta the bag. There's no unposting that post. Better to own those titles and get ahead of the gossip before it slaps us in the face. Not gonna let that happen, for real!

Tia: And here I seriously thought you'd be the one throwing a hissy fit about it, Holes. Sounds like all that bratucation's finally kicking in. Anyway, it was outrageous as fuck! Who did he think he was? I'm way too pretty for any beautifications. No need for upgrades! I'm a big-boob blonde -- how much more bimbo can you be?

Holly: Oh my god, look at that! Miss Tits fighting for her right to be called a bimbo. Is she finally ready to accept the truth? Born to be a doll, made into a fuckdoll! That's what Zaddy von Stern's gonna do. No way around it!

Tia: Jesus, you're relentless. But let's be real! You're just trying to cover up your own epic fail, ain't you? Get this, folks! Mr. von Bro wasn't all too thrilled with Holes' performance either. Said she's way too bitchy to be a proper breast seller, so she needs more bratucation. Anyone acting that arrogant better be the biggest slut in the room - and she wasn't that night at the charity. That honor was mine! 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Holly: Didn't you just say, you've got higher standards, sis? Guess, the denial doll struck again! Anyway, I'm gonna brat that man into submission. Just wait and see! He's gonna be obsessed with taming my ass - if Daddy Dom even lets him. 'Pwwwappp!'

Tia: Guess, we'll see how that plays out, 'cause Mr. von Bro said he's adding a clause in our contracts. We gotta crush a special task every week. Nail it, and the contract gets extended. We'll even get a bonus on top. Fail, and the contract's voided. No pressure, right?

Holly: Oh, I'm so gonna slay that challenge! My face when I got my assignment. Too easy! Every week, I'm supposed to learn a lesson. And all I gotta do is tease some poor dude into giving me a brattitude adjustment. Does anyone else feel like that bonus is mine already?

Tia: I'm not so sure about mine, though. Doesn't sound that easy! Every week, I gotta solve a 'First World Bimbo Problem'. Whatever the fuck that means! Only thing I know? If Holes slays her challenge, I'm gonna graduate to the next bimbo level with honors. Swear to god!

Holly: Good thing, we get to prove our slay tomorrow. That's when we meet the VonderBoomers to officially sign the contracts. And after that, it's party o'clock. Don Stein promised! We're so gonna pop off!

 

Tia: And we already got our tasks for the party. Wanna hear my 'First World Bimbo Problem', folks? It's this: 'When your body's not as inflatable as the party balloons'. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Maybe, our fellow fashionistas got some ideas. Let me know!

Holly: Don't stress, sis! We'll find out real soon. Thinking ahead? That's like the most unbimbo thing I've ever heard? Better stop right away, Tits! Anyway, my task's just as cryptic. It says: 'How to let the actions do the talking'.

Tia: Whatever! One thing's for sure - we're gonna show up, look hot, and totally glam-up that contract signing. 'Shhhlurrrp!'

Tia: Mosdef! I'm gonna be the cutest contract star ever! And we're gonna turn that afterparty into a full-on glamathon! But that's it for now, my fierce fashionistas. Catch you next week! 'Pwwwappp!'

*to be continued*

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